31 July 2006

Has kicked in, full-force. And considering how much time we spend separated and separating, it is making for some frequently unhappy moments for all parties involved.

This morning, for example, after being in class and away from her 8 hours Saturday and 8 hours Sunday, I dropped Birdy off on this bright Monday morning at the Baby Storage Facility, and she cried the way she did when she dove off the couch head first onto the hardwoods. Like way she cried when she slipped in the bath and bonked her face on the bathtub. The cry that is preceeded by a red face and open mouth and no sound at all for an unnerving amount of time, and during these seconds the mama's brain gets hot and sloshy and the room starts to spin and the pit of her stomach gets knotted and the wind is knocked out of her. There are tears. And a lot of sadness and fear. And this morning, it included squirming almost all the way out of the care person's grip and clawing at my arms and clothes with her teensy little claws. And wailing, wailing, wailing as I walked out the door.

Usually, it isn't my kid that's melting down, but there's always some little person coming completely and totally unglued in that place. Usually more than one. Usually more than two or three. I'm no Scientologist-- no complete silence neccessary for my kid-- but I have to think that spending all of those hours in a room full of distress signals must be kind of poisonous. Sonically, at least, if not emotionally.

So I pulled my car over about a block away from the place and sat. And just. Cried. For Birdy and for myself.

I'll be glad when A's later office hours start, and he's the drop-off person again. Not that I want him to go through this awfulness, but he doesn't cry as easily. I mean, c'mon. The Rainbow Connection and all.

30 July 2006

Mama Snee enters the Panera Bread and orders a soup/ salad combo and a drink and pays a hundred and nine dollars for it. She is given a restaurant-blinky-buzzer to tell her when her food will be ready. She goes to fill up her drink, and her blinky buzzer starts buzzing and vibrating all over the drink counter, and falls onto the floor. Mama Snee bends over to pick up her blinky buzzer and drops her keys, phone, and two tampons onto the floor, and comes within an inch of having her finger crushed by someone’s big clumsy foot while trying to pick everything up out of the cola-sludge on the floor around the drink station in a 3ft X 3ft area crammed with sixty people trying to fill up their drinks.

Mama Snee juggles her food, drink, and bag into the dining area and spots an empty booth with some trash on it. She puts down her food and picks up the empty plastic (not even a Panera-branded cup/ lid/straw deal, just a Dixie) cup and crosses the room to continue filling her drink and throw away the trash. She returns to her booth to find a man and a woman standing over her food. They give her the evilest evil eye.

Woman: Did you put your stuff on our table?!?!

MS: Sorry, I didn’t realize you were still using it. I thought it was empty.

Woman: DID YOU SEE MY CUP HERE?

MS: Yes, I thought it was trash.

Mama Snee is gathering her food, drink, bag, kitchen goddamn sink to move to another table.

Woman: It is not trash! I was drinking that water!

Man:Blink. Blink.

MS: (calmly) Okay, I’m moving.

Woman: WE JUST GOT UP TO GET SOME MORE COFFEE, AND YOU STOLE OUR TABLE!”

Man: We were just getting more coffee.

Woman: WE WERE JUST GETTING MORE COFFEE!!”

Her tone was the tone of someone finally standing up for herself, someone telling it exactly like it is, then pointing their finger toward the door and shouting, “And stay out!”

I did not respond again, just so you know, but spent the next forty-five minutes coming up with really clever things I could have said. Things like “Fuck off.”

And then, just because Panera asked me to, I bussed my table and separated the dishes into a nasty buss pan and my trash into a garbage bin. I paid a hundred and nine dollars for lunch, put myself in danger to find a seat (that woman was rabid), and then bussed my own table, and separated out the trash. I’m surprised I got out of there without washing my fucking dishes. No more, Panera. We are through.

Worrisome Trends

Recently, everywhere I turn, somebody has skin cancer. They’re having it biopsied. They’re having it removed. They’re worried about it. I’m worried about it. It’s on the front page of CNN.com. On the radio. It’s part of the chapter on the Integumentary System and Epithelial membranes for my test. My grandfather. A friend. A blogger I read religiously.

So I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of sign. (Go ahead, look it up in the DSM-IV. I think it’s called Ideas of Reference. I may be bordering on nuts, but at least I know the name for it.) This is the way the Universe is choosing to tell me to get to the doctor, because don’t you remember all of those sunburns from childhood? No, I don’t have any weird moles, but they’re all weird if you look at them long enough.

In Other, Less Paranoid News

Birdy has three teeth! I know! And she can point to her head, her tummy, and (sometimes) her Mama and Daddy. She can bah-boh-bah and turn the pages to read a book by herself. She can slide her tongue back and forth across her lips if you do it first. She gets cracked up at the weirdest things, like marching around the house with her on your hip, kicking your leg out every third step and grunting "Chah!". She knows the sign for milk (not that she uses it, but she knows it). She kind of took a step tonight.

Kind of, though. Not a for-real step, because I ‘m not totally ready for that. She was just bridging the gap between her bookshelf and the rocker. So I guess it was step-ish. It was definitely step-ish. Yikes.

She also slipped in her ducky tub yesterday and banged her cheek on the very hard and cold side of the bathtub. So now she kind of has a little shiner under her right eye. I’m pretty sure I‘m the only one that notices it, but since I was also the only one in the bathroom with her when she slipped and I’m the only one that could have caught her, I’m definitely going to be the one who notices it. No, not beating myself up over it, I’m just saying. I’m gonna see that kind of thing.

The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

Oh, and for some reason I cannot define, the song “The Rainbow Connection” makes my eyes well up. It isn’t a sad song. What gives?

I have this little anxiety about toilet-flushing: I’m never, ever 100% sure that I’ve flushed. Because flushing is one of those things that we do so often in our lives that it becomes so automatic that you could easily do it and not remember if you’ve flushed or not.

Unfortunately, this little hangup has hit me only recently in my life, and I attribute it to my pregnancy with Birdy, especially toward the end, when I had to pee about every 7.2 seconds. After a certain point it began to feel ridiculous and wasteful to flush the toilet at home every time, since I’d be seated again before the tank even filled all the way up. That, and our upstairs toilet is, like, the first toilet ever made or something, because it is so effing old that you can’t buy any parts for it, but it has this really slow leak that is fixed only by rigging a ponytail holder around this other part that keeps it from filling up, so when you DO use the toilet, you have to un-hook the dealie and let it fill all the way up before you can actually-- it's broken. So I didn’t flush every time on that one, either. Flash forward to present-day, when I have to return to the bathroom probably eight out of ten times, within two or so minutes of exiting the bathroom, to peek into the toilet and make sure I have really sealed the deal. I have yet to find that I did not flush, but that does not make the need to check any less real.

Okay, I feel like kind of a jerk. I went on and on about Girl 1 and Girl 2 from massage school in this blog, about how they’re annoying to me, et cetera. And then continued to sit in the classes I share with G1 and G2 and fume and grind my teeth because they drove me so crazy. And when the teacher would chat them up and give them all of this attention, I would sit in my little desk/ over my little table and think “Don’t you know how annoying they are? Stop talking to them!” which, for immature and childish women in their thirties like me, translates emotionally to “Please tell me you like me and that I’m your favorite and that I am doing a fine job.”

I think G2 is failed the last class we had together. I know this (I think) because someone failed the class, according to the grades posted in the lounge, and I’m fairly certain it was her. I even had half of a plan to figure out, by process of elimination, if that was indeed her student ID number, so I would know FOR SURE that she’d failed the class. The plan involved taking down the number and waiting until next term and then some complicated observing of the grade board. What the fuck is wrong with me? I mean, really. The girl failed the class because she didn’t show up much. It isn’t complicated. And furthermore, why do I need to know—and confirm—that this is true?

Here’s the reason, I realized this weekend, that I dislike G2 so much: Although we have vastly different sets of social behaviors and skills, G2 is like me at nineteen. She’s crapping her way through massage school in much the same way that I crapped my way through the first few years of college, showing up for class inconsistently at best, making just-good-enough grades, coming up with really dumb excuses, relying on the good graces of teachers, getting in the way of the students who give a damn.* And I regret, regret, regret that. So when I sit next to my table fuming, thinking “Geezus, G2, keep up—you’re paying for this class, you know, so maybe you should show the fuck up,” what I really mean is “I wish I would have been as interested and attentive and dedicated when I went to college as I am at massage school, thirteen years later.”**

And G1? She’s actually really sweet. She’s a sponge in class. She’s wide-eyed and learning a lot, just like I am. And others saw that from the beginning, recognized her potential, and have been kind to her. Unlike me, who would probably be one of those mean, slobbery-type dogs that eats kittens, if I were a dog. And she were a kitten. Whatever. The point is, she’s not so bad, and I’m an evil old ogre.

So enough about G1 and G2. I also realize that if any of the faculty were to know how venomous I’ve been toward those two, I would certainly get a talking-to, and I’d deserve it.

So, massage school has been good this week. We’re almost finished learning the basic Swedish techniques, meaning that I’m two arm-sequences away from being able to give an hour-long, for-real massage, and after next term I’ll be one-third of the way through the program. Again, who knew massage school would be so much like regular school? Today, we massaged butts and legs. That’s right. We massaged butts. You know how, after you breastfeed, you feel like you could go to the grocery store topless and not think twice about it, since everyone in the world has now seen your lovely ladies? Well, that’s the way I now feel about my ass. It’s kind of a nice feeling. (and so is getting your ass massaged.)

*For the record, I did sort of okay in parts of college, and even did well in some classes, including my writing workshops, studio art, art history, contemporary poetry, theater, and gender studies. I totally crapped through Mideivel Lit, History of the Ottoman Empire, Algebra 1 and Algebra 1 repeated, Computer something-something, and Italian 2 (though I ended up minoring in Italian, go figure).

**Also for the record, G2 is still annoying. I’m just going to react to it differently.

28 July 2006

I think that after spending some time at the 8th Avenue Kroger this afternoon, I have come to the conclusion that people are generally fucked-up-looking. I’m not saying ugly, but I am saying oddly mismatched in the parts department and shoved into interestingly-shaped clothing. At least, these are the outcomes I found at the 8th Avenue Kroger.

Why were you at the 8th Avenue Kroger?Because I was pooping there.

Why were you pooping at the 8th Avenue Kroger?I had the Black Bean salad from the Carribean place for lunch. I love the black bean salad, but it does have its cleansing properties. I decided to not drop this particular deuce at the office, which would mean essentially sitting right next to my coworkers and letting it go. The walls are thin, people. I’ve done it several times before*, I know everyone else is tired of pretending they didn’t hear the party when I slink out of the bathroom, and I just don’t need the shame on my birthday.

That’s right, it’s my birthday. I am thirty.

Get your filthy hands offa meAnd I need a manicure. And I’m not one of those people who says things like “I need a manicure, my polish is chipped.” I’m saying I need a manicure because my hands look like the hands of a fourteen-year-old boy who bites his nails and chews on his cuticles and maybe works on cars all day.

______________

* I don’t have a gallbladder, okay? It was removed when I was nineteen, thanks to some gigantoid stones that made me think I was having a for-real heart attack about four times a week. And to spare you my lecture about bile storage and fatty foods/ proteins and ease of digestion, I’ll just let you know that things are just different when you part with your gallbladder. Just as members of the mafia make sure they can always see the door from their table at the restaurant, I will always know where to find the nearest bathroom, its level of cleanliness, and privacy level on a scale of 1-10. It may seem as though I talk a lot about pooping. I do, because I spend a lot of my time doing it.

26 July 2006

Don't worry, I'm not trapped under a rock or anything. Unless you count school, weekend classes, baby, work, freelance jobs (all of a sudden, too-- when it rains, it pours), and general living in the real world as being trapped under several rocks. In which case, I am, in fact, trapped under rocks. So send for help, or at least a Saint Bernard with a little mini-barrel of Whiskey strapped to his collar.

Oh, and who knew Massage School would be so much like regular school? As in tests and grades and homework and this whole you-have-to-work-at-it nonsense? And when did my sit-and-get-paid-part-time job turn into a you-have-a-ton-of-shit-to-do-and-only-thirty-hours-to-do-it job?

Flarbh. I ran into someone I know from college at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago, and she was all "oh, we should get together and have lunch" and while I'd love to catch up, I had to say something like, "Seriously, every minute of my life is scheduled right now." which sounded like total blow-off talk, but I really meant it. I have X amount of time to do Y thing. And if I miss my window, it isn't getting done. Again, Flarbh.

I've been making little scribbles in my little notebooks, so that when I have time to sit down and write a blog, for real, I can remember all of the reasons I hate Panera (Because, you know, fuck Panera) and more fantastic things about the bathroom at work. I know you're on pins and needles over it.

Until I can write a real one, here's a pic of the Bird, who is so close to walking it makes me want to throw up a little:

And this one: check out the preppy threads from Grandma.

Ok, and one more, because this one makes me want to board up the doors and windows and get back under the covers and never, ever leave my house again, for any reason:

19 July 2006

Don't WorryToday was Birdy’s 9-month checkup with the pediatrician. All looks good, we’re moving on to Cheerios (met with poor reviews and some gagging, but we’ll get through that), head still gargantuan, no pressure from the doctor to introduce meats, now or ever (love her), hates getting her finger pricked to take blood, falls in love with her naked reflection in the metal trash can and has to be peeled off of it several times. Oh, and she has a slight heart murmur.

Which is driving me nuts. The doctor said it’s very common in little ones to have a heart murmur and grow out of it, that we’ll check again in a year to see if it’s gone, and if not, it’s off to the Cardiologist we go.

I’ve explained it now to three people, and now you: it’s not a big deal, it’s common, it’s going to be fine. And I think that doing crisis intervention as a job for so many years has made me this way: compartmentalize the information into digestable pieces, focus on the reality, reality, reality, speak softly and make sure nobody gets upset. Don’t look worried, or other people will be worried. And if other people are worried, they will ask you questions, and you will have to answer them, and then it will be a real thing, and then you will have to worry.

This evening, my brother told me that he couldn’t discuss his wedding invitations with me tonight because he’d just found out that his cat has a heart murmur and it was just too upsetting for him to discuss this huge project with me. And it’s perfectly healthy and normal for him to be upset by that. But it made me realize that yeah, okay, for real, now: my own flesh and blood has a FUCKING HEART MURMUR. Temporary or not, it’s there, and all I can picture is Birdy’s little heart in her chest, fluttering away, murmuring, murmuring, murmuring. Regardless of the severity, there is a real flaw in my perfect baby. There is a thing lurking.

If you have a kid that has/ has had a heart murmur, I’d love to hear from you.

Yo' MamaIn other news, I’ve been insanely motherly-emotional all week, maybe because my own mama has been visiting for a couple of days. She’s been hanging out with Bird, washing our windows, mopping the laundry room floor, buying groceries, cleaning the bathtub. For reals. How wonderful is that? She’s so incredible, so patient, so perfectly Granny with our Bird. And somehow, it makes me feel just a leeeeeeeetle incapable, a little embarrassed about the funk in the tub. About my not-always-budget-conscious-even-though-hello-we-have-no-money grocery choices.

How fucked up, really. She drives five hours to do nice things that she knows I have no time to notice, let alone complete. I’m pretty sure she knows why my windows have cat-nose prints all over them. It’s because I have a 900-pound damn cat. And a baby and a job and school and a husband and dogs and constant visitors. And I am so thankful for all of that madness, and for her. And yet, I still feel a little pinch about it. And that is totally my very own problem, not anybody else’s.

More about Birdy SneeBirdy was nine months old yesterday. On the outside as long as she was on the inside. And I’m constantly baffled by how this has happened—how she became herself in no time at all, so brave and so smart and so funny. Showing me her tummy when I ask. Trying to tell me things. Understanding me when she’s elbow-deep in the dog water dish and I say “no.” Being amazed by bigger kids. Giving sloppy kisses. Wearing 2-piece pajamas. Making the sign for milk.

I know I’ve said this before, but at the risk of generating instant nostalgia: I really am trying to squeeze her long and hard at night so that someday, when she’s asking for my car keys, I’ll remember how little and warm she is right now and how she fits just right on my body, with her four strands of hair and that one proud tooth, all snuggled up under my neck, sucking on my shirt. It feels like a vague and powerful homesickness, already.

14 July 2006

Here I sit on Friday, noodling around the internet, once again wishing someone would just post a blog already. And hey! Okay, I will! This is a familiar moment to me, not unlike every single time I play any kind of card game that involves other people and taking turns, where it will be all quiet on the western front for, like, 8 minutes and then I’m all “oh, is it my turn?” Yes, Mama Snee, it is your turn.

New Hair, PleaseI’m getting ready to break my own rules and schedule a haircut. I’ve had an epiphany, and for the first time in my life I might walk into a salon and have some semblance of an idea of what I want to happen, besides just sitting in the chair and meeting eyes with the stylist in the mirror and saying “change it?” when asked “So, what are we going to do today?” That is, providing I can get a haircut appointment in the next nine goddamn months. As I mentioned, I’m currently seeing other stylists, and now that I’m out in the field I have a lot of numbers and no callbacks. I am not a hairdo playa, it would seem.

In my opinionThere is no Tom Cruise baby. There just isn’t.

Regrets

I regret not breastfeeding longer. For several reasons. Most practically, I can’t afford the formula. Now that Birdy’s knocking back 5 8-oz bottles a day, that stuff is getting expensive. I’m pretty sure I could cultivate a nicely polished drug habit for this kind of money: we’re going through about 2 cans a week, at $24 a pop. I don’t think I need to tell you that this is $200 a month that I am not making at my current part-time, not-for-profit job.

But also, and more importantly on the breastfeeding issue:

1. I was really good at breastfeeding. Talking to my best girl out in the Very Far Away West, I’m realizing how lucky I had it. I was, in addition to being a D-cup (formerly an A-cup, yes, thankyouverymuch) a milk machine. I could have fed two babies. I was good at pumping, and Birdy was good at latching. With some normal frustrating moments, of course, but overall it was going quite well.

2. One of the reasons I stopped breastfeeding was that I was going back to work. I made a decision that would ultimately affect my financial situation quite drastically in addition to the health benefits to my child based on a job I didn’t even like or intend to keep. Because it was all men in the office and we had a one-seater bathroom and it just seemed like a hassle. And yes, it would have been hassle. But I should have made it their problem, not mine. “Only eight weeks of maternity leave? Okay, sure! And when I get back, I won’t want to bother you with the pesky nutrition of my child, so I’ll just change everything around so you won’t have to wait for the bathroom, okay?” What was I thinking?

3. Okay, yes, it was a hassle. And I did pump at home for a while when I started back to work, but only at home, and I supplemented with formula. The pumping was a bitch, and I felt like my life revolved around my boobs and that drove me nuts. But you know what? I had a brand-new pink baby, and my life revolved around her, and HER life revolved around my boobs. Why did I fight that? I was just starting to get really good at it, 4 months later, Why did I give up so easily? Because it didn’t fit into the parts of my old life that were still hanging around? Instead of saying “I’m back to work! Where can I pump my boobs? And we’re gonna need a bigger fridge!” I tried –in this case, anyway-- to make adjustments and carry on like I’d just tripped on the sidewalk and didn’t want anyone to notice. And I think, in part, because I was afraid of losing my job, which was going to happen one way or another anyway.Next time, I will be breastfeeding as long as I possibly can, because I sure as shit cannot afford this golden powder anymore. And hopefully I will be in a position where it won’t even be an issue.

Blog News

(I don't know what is going on with the spacing, but Blogger, you are pissing me off)

I think I might take the link to this blog off of my myspace page. (And my hits are going to go way down, but I shouldn’t even have that damn sitemeter, so I shouldn't care. ) I’m learning that EVERYONE is on Myspace. Everyone is on the internet, true, and it’s not that I don’t want people to read my blog—it isn’t that at all. But linking to it from Myspace really ruins the semi-anonymity, if you can even call it that.

There’s a Seinfeld episode where George is having lunch with his mother, who is proclaiming herself to be a “divorcee,” wanting to get an eye-lift because she’s now “out there.” And George says, “You can’t be out there. Because I’m out there. And if I see YOU out there, there’s not enough electricity in the world to shock me back into coherence.”

Think of that quote and me, and work/family, and Myspace. Make any sense? For the most part, I’m fine with this blog being public. But going to get the mail drunk in your underwear and maybe somebody drives by and sees you is a different situation than, say, having someone mail photos of it to your mother-in-law. So if you’re used to getting here via Myspace, just go ahead and bookmark it some other way, because it’s about to come down.

Class Notes

So, in class on Thursday, Girl 1 kind of found a soft spot in my heart, with her earnest and strangely phrased questions during lecture. She’s smart, and her brain is just starting to bloom in that post-high school way. It’s endearing.

But I still can’t stand the other one. Not one bit.Example: Our teacher was talking about advancements in prosthetics, and concluded with “I don’t know if we’ll ever see a prosthetic limb fully integrated into the nervous system in our lifetime.”Girl 2 says “oh, we will!”What, you workin’ on that one, Girl 2?I find myself muttering A LOT in that class. I am the grouchy old lady who mutters.

If only I would have saidTalking with some no-kid friends last weekend about babies, and talking about the pain of birth, and fear, and I wish I would have had this that I read in Brain, Child—Of course, I do not have the magazine with me (because I am working, duh), but it was something about being reborn when you give birth. About not forgetting the pain, because you don’t, but about leaving that pain behind as a part of your old life, as you start this new life of motherhood. I wish I would have said that, instead of “yeah, it hurts, but you kind of get over it.” Ah, such an eloquent speaker, no?

11 July 2006

I have tried somewhat successfully in this blog to not talk shit about other people in a really obvious way, recognizing that the internet is not a private space. And truthfully, your friend Mama Snee can be a bit of a shit-talker. So prepare yourselves, because I am about to talk some shit.

First day of Anatomy: Bad.To begin the class, we had to go around the room and say a few things about ourselves. So I pipe up and say that my background is in psychosocial rehab and that I’m looking for a way to have a therapeutic relationship with clients without being in the “intense” mental health world. Yes, I said “intense.” In hindsight, I guess I felt a need to set myself apart from everybody and say “I have a degree and I am a very professional person,” because I still have some internal, nagging bullshit going on about being legit.

Another woman simply said, “I have a three year old, and I need to find a way to spend more time with him. I’m hoping that massage will let me do that.” Which was, of course exactly what I meant to say. Duh. Was I worried that citing that as my reason would somehow be wrong because it is a more passive reason? Especially when finding time for Birdy is the damn truth. Gah. I am an idiot.

And guess who is in my class? My two least favorite people from the Acupressure class. After the first-half lecture, we split into small groups, and, of course, Girls 1 and 2 were in my small group.

They are both quite young. One is into the Xmen and the other is a giant who looks like she lives in a falling-down apartment building with her boyfriend who likes Nascar and “Faces of Death” movies. Both are obnoxious, and it’s becoming clear that they have the hots for each other in a lesbicurious kind of way.

So, while the other small groups are actually learning, I am trying to lead us through the exercises on our worksheet while Girl 1 and Girl 2 make jokes about the size of the dick on the muscle chart guy, and wondering aloud which animal in the animal kingdom has the biggest penis. While the other small groups are having interesting side conversations with the instructor, I’m listening to Girl 1 tell me that she’s sure to remember the transverse and frontal plane divisions because people have been cut in half on those lines in this horror movie or that horror movie.

Girl 2 says that the skeletal chart looks like a chemistry equation, and informs us all that she took Advanced Chemistry, which has nothing to do with anything we’re talking about, nor does it relate to the skeletal chart. Both Girl 1 and Girl 2 giggle and exchange glances when the teacher says the word “acid.” Our entire hour-long group study is peppered with poorly-crafted sexual banter, pedestrian verbal sparring and obnoxious cries for attention, (including references to being aroused by one of the diagram drawings in the textbook, and really, have you seen those things? I mean REALLY). Here we have Mama Snee desperately trying to keep her head down and not respond. Because what would I have said? I would have said, “I also took Advanced Chemistry, Bitch—WHAT!?” and thrown my arms up, all gangsta style. And if you know what Mama Snee really looks like, you know I could never pull it off. And Girl 2 could totally kick my ass, which she shared already, when she told us how she was in ROTC and what a tough, tough bitch she is.

I felt I was dying a slow death in there, and when we were dismissed, I answered the study-group-can-we-have-your-phone-number question with “no thanks.” Fuck it if I’m rude. I need to nip this in the bud. I can feel some “same seats” stuff starting to happen in this class, and I’m having none of it.

All the while those glowing, fit, good-smelling students are milling around in the student lounge outside our classroom door. Why am I in class with these dunces? Why am I not sharing an apple with those people and talking about our great drawstring yoga pants?

On a positive note:I left my lunch in the fridge at school and still managed to avoid the Wendy’s drive-thru near my office as well as the one near Birdy’s daycare. I opted instead for the apple I’ve had in the breakroom for several days. And arrived home ravenous at 4:30. So, you know, yay me.

10 July 2006

I was all set to write an entry about my hairdo, but guess who else wrote about hairdos today? Mimi Smartypants. I have been in her shoes.

In fact, I was in her shoes at my last haircut, and I have narrowly escaped another bad hair decision. Because I never fully commit to short or long, I am in a constant state of in-between, which is also known as mom-hair. Ugh. I do like it short, though, because even when I am wearing my very boring mom-clothes, at least I have hip hair. But the truth is that I will never be able to keep up with or afford regular haircuts, so from here on out it is shoulders or below, as soon as I get there again. Over the weekend, I was blinded by some woman's hair on some trendy-expensive-skirt website, and I made a call to a (new) hairdo place, and luckily nobody called me back. I can't get a haircut. And if I were to get a haircut, I'm switching hairdo ladies, because the last couple of cuts I've had, my stylist seemed pretty grouchy, and if you're not into cutting my hair, I'm not going to push you. And I'm certainly not going to pay you fifty bucks.

Wanna know what I do in my own, private, upstairs bathroom? I knock the damn deodorant behind the little plastic shelf every time I reach for the saline solution. It sucks. And my little upstairs bathroom is so, so dirty. Like a frat house bathroom, almost. I am repulsed by it every time I go in, and I think "I've got to clean this freaking disgusting bathroom." And then, when I have a free minute, I think "I've got to clean this freaking disgusting bathroom." And then I think, "eh." Because cleaning it causes more actual discomfort than using it twice a day.

Speaking of cleaning, A. got all manic this weekend and mopped every floor in the downstairs of the house. It is so clean. And have I talked about Caldrea yet? I highly recommend the Lavender Pine. It's almost enough to make me want to clean the upstairs bathroom. Almost.

It's late-ish in my world, and quiet in the house, and I can hear Birdy scritch-scritching around in her crib through the monitor. She is a loud and mobile sleeper. I can hardly snuggle with her in our bed anymore, because as soon as she hits the almost-sleep point she crawls around and picks and kicks and climbs the pillows with her eyes closed.

And she is trying to stand on her own sometimes, mimicking me saying "ouch," when she clonks me in the head with the remote, and toot-tooting through an empty paper towel roll. She is so close to being a kid. And the closer she gets to being the funny kid she's trying to be, the longer I rock her at bedtime, because I know my baby-baby time is almost up.

I'm thinking I will open a toy store called "Reality," and I will only sell remote controls, cell phones, empty paper towel rolls, and lint. Because my child wants nothing to do with the brightly colored and kid-appropriate toys that are overflowing her pack-n-play. She wants electronics and trash. It will save parents a lot of time and money that they would have spent on stacking rings and Elmo puppets.

I ordered some prints from Shutterfly last week, and they arrived today. This one I'm especially happy with:

06 July 2006

I said this to A. yesterday, and declared that if I ever started a band, this would be the name of it. To which he says, “There’s already a band called that.” So, if you were hoping I would start a band, you can just give it up. My hopes are all dashed.

So, A. is out filming a rock show, which involves both the Clutters and the Woggles, and I am sitting here in my little computing compartment while my Birdy sleeps and sweats in her little sleeping compartment, and we are all separated and I’m not sure I’m in love with that idea. I couldn’t understand the family bed when Birdy first arrived, because when she did sleep with us, I couldn’t catch a wink. But now, when she snuggles up and falls asleep on me, I feel like neither one of us wants to be anywhere else in the world, so why do I peel her sweaty self off of mine and put her in this little cage to sleep?

And as I sit here in my computing compartment, I think, “I wonder what regrettable thing I can do right now?” And I answer, “Smoke cigarettes on the back porch!” So out I go to smoke cigarettes. One dog joins me, the other says “fuck that, I’m comfy, you’re dumb.” He is right, he is smarter than I.

I light my cig with a fireplace match found in the garage. The extra-long stick breaks and the flaming end lands on my saggybaggy sweatpants. And nothing—NOTHING-- spoils one’s fun like burning sweatpants, especially when one knows that they have burned their sweatpants while committing a regrettable act.

Also, while sitting outside, people continue to set off fireworks. And in my “emerging” and “urban” neighborhood, the farther you get from the 4th of July, the more the firecrackers sound like gunshots. So the cigarette was completely unenjoyable and rushed, serves me right.

TC of the Family BI stayed home this morning to do some bill-paying and other family-business-completing, loodleylooing around in Quicken, categorizing, subtracting. And hey, guess what? I work part-time now! And for a lot less money on the hour! Oh, the Snee family is far, far beyond its budget. And I am not talking about spending outside of the perameters of an established little plan. I am talking about dipping into our small savings to pay for our necessities (like Netflix and superfast internet? Some prioritizing is in order). The Snees are not the “save for a rainy day” type. We can’t be, because it is always raining around here.

I like edgy films, but, um...We watched about 40 minutes of a documentary film called Tarnation the other day. We could not finish it, due to the graphic (but true) descriptions of childhood abuses suffered, and the chilling thought of one person’s ill-informed decisions completely fucking up another person’s life. The film was effective, for sure, but I dare you to finish it. I’m still unable to shake it.

FlatteryI bought this shirt at the Gap on my shopping spree. And it makes me feel thin and pre-baby-shaped. I enjoyed it all day, but that shirt is a liar.

EmploymentBecause I stayed home this morning, I drank nearly an entire pot of coffee, and showed up at work feeling like I’d just done some serious street drugs. It’s a wonder I didn’t claw at my own flesh and try to hide under my desk. I was completely tweaked.

A note about work, without being specific: The adjective “cute” is really belittling. Like when I do something deliberately and efficiently, or offer the correct spelling, or revise something so that it makes sense. That isn’t really “cute.” That’s just “my job.”

Blog NotesI was seriously considering turning off my sitemeter (too much information), and my notifylist feature on this blog. The notifylist in particular, because sometimes I post something really dumb and I feel like I’m all “Hey you guys!Come look at what I did! Come look!See?!” But I’m not going to, because I am subscribed to one other person’s notifylist, and it is mimi smartypants. Every time I get that email about her new entry I get so excited. And on the off-chance that someone feels that way about this blog, I’ll keep it going. If it’s annoying, though, and you want to unsubscribe, I won’t be offended.

And finally, tonight, sitting in my little computing compartment, I’m kind of tweedledeeing around and procrastinating about my freelance project, and I’m hitting “next blog” over and over again on Blogger. And in the last—let’s say thirty—sites I’ve cruised (I'm fast, and so many are in Spanish), I have come across 3 S&M sites with very detailed descriptions and pictures (not hot pictures, I assure you—think giant bare ass in a gas station parking lot with cane marks on it). So, based on my very professional research, 10% of the blogs out there are freaky S&M sites. Just so you know. Also, according to the News, if you even think about getting on MySpace, something evil and perverted will seep through your computer screen and into your brain and you will have instantly been violated.*

05 July 2006

Guess what Mama Snee is doing today? Trying desperately to print multiple envelopes with the same address. That is impossible. And, as a solution, I’m trying to print address labels to stick on the envelopes, which has left me not knowing whether to vomit or cry, resting my forehead on the mammoth print/ fax/ copy machine as it makes wheezing starting-up/ cooling-down noises over and over. I have opened doors, cut power and restored it, tried every combination of everything I know. And nothing. So I sit here, with my face resting on the top of the Canon 2230 as if I’ve been shot and my limp body happened to land on the printer/ copier/ fax station, whispering “motherfucker” over and over. It is a sad sight, gentle readers.

And hey, while we’re talking about it, guess what is so awesome at my new office? The bathroom! You are already so tired of hearing about poop, I know, and it’s not going to get any better: The bathroom has no exhaust fan, is a one-seater, tile floor and walls for excellent acoustics, and shares a wall with Coworker 1, who is directly across from Boss in this little old house. So everything is audible. And when I think, “maybe it’s not so loud,” I hear the person in the office next door dialing her cell phone. Let me point out that if I can hear cell phone dialing (not ringing, dialing) from where I sit, I’m certain that nothing happening in my little area is a secret.

This is an awesome setup for, let’s say, right after you have a black bean salad (somebody stage an intervention, please) for your lunch and you are totally ripping ass a mere 2 feet from your coworkers.

How could that get even awesomer? I’ll tell you. Coworker 2 comes over and stands between the open doors of Coworker 1 (next door) and Boss (directly across). Essentially stands right outside the door of the bathroom, about 3 feet away from me, talking about a database problem for which I am the only one with an answer. Nothing like hearing yourself discussed in third person when you know full well that everyone knows where you are and can hear—well, everything.

Conversation:Coworker 2: Do you know how to blah blah blah?Boss: No, but Mama Snee does, she can show you blah blah blah.Coworker 2: Oh, so I can do blah blah blah?Boss: Um, wait for Mama Snee to show you. You should probably set up a meeting with her to blah blah blah.Coworker 2: Okay, that would be really helpful.Mama Snee: Frraaaaaaaaaaaarrrrppppppppp.Coworker 2: I’ll just send her an email.